Cursed

I get a curt nod. Then he closes down. I see it in the set of his shoulders, the tightness of his jaw. He starts the car and pulls onto the street.

I clear my throat. “Hate crimes against vampires by other vampires. What’s next?”

If Zack has an answer to that question, he keeps it to himself. We decide to split up. I’ll go to the Blood Emporium alone and Zack will go back to the office to take a second look at Amy’s and Isabella’s financial records. When we looked the first time, we were searching for evidence that the two women were patients of Dr. Barakov. This time he’s going to look for contributions to Green Leaf.

Soon I’m on my way to Wicked Ink. The first order of business will be to see if I can persuade anyone to acknowledge that an Emporium’s housed there. If I get that far, I’ll ask to speak to someone in charge. For obvious reasons, getting a warrant is out of the question. This is going to be up to me and my powers of persuasion.

Parking in the Gaslamp District is always a hassle. There’s a road crew working on Fifth Avenue, which makes the predictably busy traffic even worse. I’ve been moving at a snail’s pace but making progress. Until now.

Now I find myself stuck behind a black sedan that’s decided to stop right in front of my destination—Wicked Ink. It’s just large enough so that it blocks the lane, has tinted windows all around like so many others these days, much like the one I saw at Evan’s place this morning. The light up ahead changes, but it still doesn’t move. I honk. The driver gets out.

“I’ll be damned.”

It isn’t like the car I saw at Evan’s. It is the car I saw at Evan’s. The driver glances back at me, not with the slightest hint of apology or even curiosity. His eyes flick my way; then he turns his back on me and holds open the rear door. The passenger gets out and heads inside. Again, there is a distinct moment of hesitation on his part. But he doesn’t look back. I can’t see his face. Is he the one who gave Liz the list I have in my pocket? If I can convince him to talk to me, he might have information about Isabella. He might even have a sense about whether the conflicts Zack mentioned have anything to do with the disappearances of Amy, Isabella, or Evan. They were all mainstreamed. Could it be they were all getting their blood here? Are they targets of the faction who wish to see the Emporiums closed?

The sedan is once again on the move. Traffic opens up and I luck out. There’s a parking space just around the corner on J Street. I park, then hurry to catch up with the man in black.

The bell over the door rings as I walk into the shop.

It’s not at all what I expected.

For a tattoo parlor, Wicked Ink has one fancy reception area. To my right is a large, round dining room table, surrounded by high-back red velvet chairs and piled high with black leather-bound books and two sterling silver candelabras. Each holds half a dozen black candles, all lit. There are more candles blazing in the standing candelabras that line the north and south walls. The walls and ceiling are padded, tufted, and covered with an elegant black on black brocade, the floors a dark polished wood. A series of ornate silver-framed floor-to-ceiling mirrors covers the east wall across from me. I see myself reflected in several of them.

It’s eerily quiet, too. No heavy metal blaring from hidden speakers. Only the barely discernible hum of an air conditioner pumping refrigerated air into a room I’d guess is about sixty degrees already. A shiver races down my spine. To my left there’s a sitting area. I wander over. There are two red velvet sofas facing each other. Between them is a round black velvet ottoman with silver-beaded fringe. More leather-bound volumes are stacked on it. I take a seat and flip through the first one. They’re filled with designs, each one labeled and indexed.

“Can I help you?”

I turn toward the voice just in time to see a door close. It’s cut into the brocade-covered wall and, once closed, is all but invisible. A touch of a button and a large flat-screen monitor that’s recessed into the wall comes alive. It displays the store’s highly stylized black-and-red logo. “Most of our clients prefer searching the online database.” The voice belongs not to the man I was looking for, but a young woman.

More precisely, a young female vampire.

She couldn’t have been more than sixteen when she was turned and looks to be completely at home in these surroundings. Her black, off-the-shoulder taffeta gown has a fitted bodice and a full skirt. I hear the rustle of silk and crinoline as she glides toward me. Her face is heart-shaped. The narrow chin and delicate cheekbones serve to further accentuate her enormous green eyes. The clothing is late Victorian, but the hair and makeup are contemporary goth. Smudged kohl eyeliner, dark red lipstick, and flawless, pale skin. Her jet-black hair is piled atop her head in an organized mess. Feather accents finish the look that must have taken hours to painstakingly create. The ink she’s sporting is dramatic, an intricate pattern of black thorns and bloodred roses that start at the top of her neck and run down, disappearing into the gown. More peek out from the edges of the long sleeves of the dress and run over her hands and fingers. I wonder how much of her petite body is covered.

With the experience of one who knows exactly the reaction her image projects, she stretches out a hand. “All my work is done here. What, exactly, are you looking for? I’m sure I can point you in the right direction.”

Her question is spoken in a purr. I rise from the couch, shake my head, and flash my badge. “Beautiful ink, but that’s not why I’m here. Special Agent Emma Monroe.”

“FBI?”

“That’s right. You are?”

“Rose.”

Appropriate. I slip the badge back into my pocket. “A man came in here a minute or two ago.”

The vampire makes a show of looking around. “I don’t think so. It appears we’re quite alone, Agent Monroe.”

“Perhaps he’s back there?” I point to the door that she’s just emerged from.

“There are three tattoo stations back there. All of them are currently empty. I was just setting up. The artists don’t normally come in until late afternoon. You’re welcome to look.” She steps back and waves toward the door. “The man you’re looking for, is he a criminal of some kind?”

“No.” I don’t take her up on her offer to search behind door number one. If she’s so willing to have me do it, there’s no point.

I decide to go for the direct approach, hoping my candor will loosen her tongue and that I won’t have to resort to using my powers.

“I want to speak to someone who works the other side of the business.”

“The other side?”

“Someone with the Emporium. I’m working a missing person’s case. Actually, it’s a missing vampire. We have reason to believe she was here the day she went missing.”

At the mention of vampire, Rose allows a slow smile to form on her lips. “Missing vampire? Can I see that badge again? This is a joke, right? Max put you up to this, didn’t he?”

Rose’s skirt starts to ring. She turns her back on me, reaches into a pocket, and pulls out a cell phone.

“Yes?” The vampire looks up into a corner of the room where a discreet surveillance camera is positioned.

I’d bet my badge that my mystery man is watching.

“Of course, sire. Right away.” She turns back to face me, the cell once again concealed in the folds of her skirt. “Follow me.”

Sire? I have no time to ask the question. Rose is on the move. She crosses the room, pushing one of the tufted wall panels aside to reveal a keypad. She enters a series of numbers, and a door, like the first one she came through, swings inward. I follow her down a short hallway to a staircase. Apparently there are floors not only above, but below us. We head down. Despite the dress, Rose negotiates the steep steps rather well.

When we reach the door at the bottom, we’re immediately buzzed through. I feel as if I’ve gone down the rabbit hole and ended up in my local grocery store. Real basements are extremely rare in Southern California. This one has a polished white floor, harsh fluorescent lights, and a long double row of industrial-grade refrigerators with glass doors.

The refrigerators are filled with blood packs. The lower shelf of one contains insulated bags that are tagged with names, dates, and times. The signs hanging on the outside that normally point shoppers to the vegetables or ice cream instead have written upon them things like A+ and B-. I pause in front of a door marked YBV.

“YBV?”

Rose walks back. “Young Blond Virgin, one of my personal favorites. We carry both male and female, of